The Murders in Charleston & The Double Standard of Southern History

In his essay “Stranger in the Village,” James Baldwin wrote: “Joyce is right about history being a nightmare–but it may be the nightmare from which no one can awaken. People are trapped in history and history is trapped in them.” I can’t help but feel the pessimism of Baldwin’s observation after Charleston. At the same time the persistence of the Emmanuel AME Church and its congregation, the love they have shown for each other and for this country is a continuing triumph. They continue to fight to step out of the traps history has laid out for them.

Beyond that Baldwin also points to a solution: We can only free ourselves from a racist history by acknowledging that history and then ripping the evil of that history from inside us. Which, among other things, would include the taking down of the Confederate flag at the South Carolina state house and from the license plates of various states. The fact that that has not happened and probably won’t happen tells us how deeply this country clings to the nightmare of its racist history.

The Charleston murderer saw that Confederate flag as a symbol of racism and racial supremacy; that was part of his “Southern” pride. What I don’t hear much about is “Southern” shame. Or regret. Or apology. The soldiers of the Confederacy are no longer alive or fighting, but the racism they fought to defend continues. It’s okay to remember and honor these soldiers in the minds of Southern conservatives. But if you point out our history of slavery, conservatives instantly say, “Why bring that up? That was in the past.” Two unequal standards for remembering history. Racism continues to create its own rules to maintain itself–or rather, racists continue to create their own rules to keep their racism.

I am also waiting for someone to point out that the Charleston murderer focused on characterizing blacks as rapists in the same way Donald Trump focused on characterizing Mexican immigrants as rapists. The fact that he is a candidate for President in the Republican Party and that Party has not disavowed him once again shows how deeply racism is embedded in our politics and psyches and how the status quo of American life is far more racist than many are willing to acknowledge.

On Freddy Gray, Baltimore & The Social Contract

At what point does the social contract end? If violence can be wreaked upon you without cause? If your life can be taken from you while you are unarmed and your murderer goes unpunished? If your rights as a citizen have been taken away simply because you were walking on the street? If the skin on your body becomes the marker for your criminality and you become a source of profit for those who run the prisons? Isn’t this the definition of a slave? You are not a citizen, violence can be done to you without need of justification or provocation, you are deemed to be property, you are not regarded as a human. If the society you live in has failed to recognize and protect your humanity, what is your obligation to that society?

These questions stem from the thinking of Afro-Pessmists like my friend, the writer and scholar, Frank Wilderson. The argument is that the ontology of slavery continues to this day for Blacks in America. Given recent events, it’s hard to argue otherwise. If one looks at the video of Walter Scott running away from the gun of policeman Michael Slager or Freddie Gray being hauled into the police van, the history of America haunts the viewer with its reincarnation of violence against Blacks.

The anger in Baltimore contains a recognition that the social contract can end, can be deemed null and void by those who believe their humanity is not recognized and protected by the state and the society in which they live.

Do I Belong Here? (Reflections of a Third Generation Asian American)

Years, from now, for many, this summer will be remembered as “The Summer of Ferguson.” I write and consult about the issues of race, and so I’ve paid close attention to the news and what’s been written about Ferguson. Partly, I’m trying to see what Ferguson and the death of Michael Brown and the furor around it tells me about the current state of race relations in America.

Beyond that, my own awakening to my ethnic and racial identity as an Asian American in part came about due to my reading of black and African American writers and thinkers. And so, reading the commentary on Ferguson by African American writers, I find myself trying to understand not just their perspective as African Americans, but also what their perspective tells me about my identity as an Asian American.

A few weeks ago, I came across this passage in Jelani Cobb’s article on the New Yorker website, “Between the World & Ferguson”:

“Linda Chavez wondered on Fox News whether “the ‘unarmed teen’ mantra” really fit Brown, who was six feet four and nearly three hundred pounds and had been caught on video shoplifting—and, it perhaps bears repeating, was a teen, and was unarmed. Chavez was roundly criticized, but she was really only guilty of saying aloud what many others have thought. Whatever happened or did not happen between Michael Brown and Darren Wilson on a winding side street, in the middle of the afternoon, in a non-descript outpost on the edge of a midsized city, whatever we imagine we know of the teen-ager, the salient fact is that he did not live long enough to cultivate his own answers.

I spent eight days in Ferguson, and in that time I developed a kind of between-the-world-and-Ferguson view of the events surrounding Brown’s death. I was once a linebacker-sized eighteen-year-old, too. What I knew then, what black people have been required to know, is that there are few things more dangerous than the perception that one is a danger. I’m embarrassed to recall that my adolescent love of words doubled as a strategy to assuage those fears; it was both a pitiable desire for acceptance and a practical necessity for survival.  I know, to this day, the element of inadvertent intimidation that colors the most innocuous interactions, particularly with white people. There are protocols for this. I sometimes let slip that I’m a professor or that I’m scarcely even familiar with the rules of football, minor biographical facts that stand in for a broader, unspoken statement of reassurance: there is no danger here. And the result is civil small talk and feeble smiles and a sense of having compromised. Other times, in an elevator or crossing a darkened parking lot, when I am six feet away but the world remains between us, I remain silent and simply let whatever miasma of stereotype or fear might be there fill the void.

Fuck you, I think. If I don’t get to feel safe here, why should you?”

What Jelani Cobb explores are the various situations where he as a black man has to maneuver through the racial stereotypes and prejudices of America. In so many ways, he’s far more consciously aware of those stereotypes and prejudices than the whites whose fears and terrors he must try to disarm in order to go about his day-to-day existence in this society. Cobb is aware that if he moves the wrong way or says the wrong thing—or even if he does nothing—there is a chance that alarms might sound, and when those alarms sound, they may take the form of a white person looking away or stepping aside or they may take more dangerous, even life threatening, forms–as this summer of Ferguson has made so readily apparent.

Many Asian Americans who grow up working class and in urban areas have experienced treatment by the police similar to the experiences of African Americans. They know what it’s like to be racially profiled, whether on the streets or in shopping malls or clubs, to be seen as criminals or thugs, threatening, dangerous. In certain neighborhoods in the Twin Cities where I live, that is the experience of many young Asian Americans, including my son.

Still racial profiling by the police is not something I grew up with. I am a third generation Japanese American from the Chicago suburbs. Growing up, I was constantly trying to fit into the white Jewish suburban world around me, and the messages I received there can be summed up in a single phrase–“You don’t belong here.”

That phrase is something I share with all Asian Americans, no matter where we grow up or what our class background is.

For me, this phrase has been expressed many different ways: “You’re not an American.” “You’re not white or Jewish.” “You’re not part of our community.” “You’re strange, foreign.” “You look funny.” “You look like the enemy in films about World War II, the Korean War, the war in Vietnam.” “You’re not a potential romantic or sexual partner, not someone I would ever think of dating, much less marrying.” “You speak English well—for an immigrant, for someone who wasn’t born here.” “You’re not athletic.” “You must eat funny food at home, things real Americans don’t eat.” “You don’t know anything about American culture.” “You know kung-fu.” “You know about samurai and the yakuza.” “You know all about ancient Asian culture.” “Your sister must be hot.” “You’re sexist.” “You’re not a leader.” “You’re a nerd, quiet, socially awkward, bumbling.” “You’re a joke, easy to make fun of.” “You’re stealing our auto industry, you’re stealing our country.” “You’re sneaky, inscrutable, you can’t be trusted.” “You are some other Asian I know.” “You all look alike.” “How can you see out of your eyes?” “You can never be President, a lead actor, a rock and roll singer, a country western singer, an R&B singer, head of an American corporation, a real American writer, a Minnesota writer, and any other number of other occupations.” “You’re a cook or an engineer or scientist.” “You can’t be from Minnesota.”

All of which could be summed up in the response, “What the hell are you doing here?”

In Jelani Cobb’s depiction of what it is like to live in America as a black man who is constantly perceived as a danger and a threat, he goes over the various ways he tries to defuse or counter that image. And he describes how, as he makes his way through this impossible disarming of suspicion, he feels humiliated, compromised, as if he is giving up something of himself, even perhaps something of his soul.

My situation is not that of a large black man who is perceived as a danger, a threat. Instead, the hurdle I face is that I am a perpetual outsider. I may or may not be perceived as dangerous, but over and over, daily, I am told: “You don’t belong here.”

To choose one of many examples: I golf, and on the golf course I am constantly meeting strangers. Almost immediately I will be constantly asked by white strangers where am I from, or, as one middle-aged white man from South Minneapolis, put it last week, “What nationality are you?”

“What nationality are you?” I asked.

He looked surprised. “Well, I’m Irish-German. But you know what I mean.”

Of course I knew what he meant.

And so here I went into my prepared statement, “My grandparents came from Japan in 1905.”

Why do I say this particular phrase? Although I doubt this gentlemen perceived all I intended in this phrase, here’s what it means: It was my grandparents who came from Japan and thus, are Japanese. My parents were born in America, so they were American citizens.

Of course my parents were imprisoned at the ages of 11 and 15 in World War II because all Japanese Americans living on the West Coast were perceived as a military threat. My parents’ being American citizens did not prevent them from having the writ of habeus corpus suspended and their right to a trial denied. But I don’t necessarily expect my white interlocutors to be aware of this.

At any rate, I also usually add to inquiries about where I’m from, “I didn’t grow up speaking any Japanese or knowing much about Japanese culture.” Meaning: “I am two generations removed from Japan. I was born here. I’m an American. That’s my nationality.”

When I was younger I wore my ignorance of Japanese and Japanese culture as a badge; I thought it made me an American.

I don’t feel that way now. Now I regret not having learned Japanese or about Japanese culture.

At the same time, though, I do realize that any evidence of my speaking Japanese or knowing Japanese culture makes me not an American; instead it becomes further evidence that I’m not from here. And I know, in many ways, I will never be from here, even though my family has lived here in America for over a century. My face tells a different story, and nothing I can do can stop that narrative and all that comes with it.

But I try, I try. Consciously, unconsciously. On the golf course, I’ll start talking about the merits of the Vikings quarterbacks, the veteran Matt Cassell, Teddy Bridgewater the rookie, the disaster of Christian Ponder. Because if I can show I know the intricate details of the Viking quarterback controversies, I’ll prove that I really do know something about American culture, that I’m not a recent immigrant. That will prove I’m an okay guy.

In doing this, I don’t consciously question the logic behind my actions. That is, why would my status be worse if I were a recent immigrant? Is that devaluation in the head of the white people I meet? Or is it my head? Or both?

But in defense of myself, part of me just wants to convey who I am, who exactly I am. Because I actually like football and do know about the Vikings quarterbacks. Because I am a third generation American. But of course there’s more to it than that. I want to be seen for whom I am, who I actually am. I want to be seen without the scrim of stereotypes and prejudices that keep white Americans and even other Americans of color from seeing who I am, seeing my particularity, my individual history. Indeed, that’s why I’ve written and published two memoirs, one novel, four books of poetry and one book of literary criticism, four plays and dozens of essays. I want to articulate who I am, who my family is, who Japanese Americans are, our history, our community.

And like Jelani Cobb, my relationship to language is also connected to the stereotypes and prejudices around me. When I was younger, my mother often complained that I talked like a jock, and cited the way I sprinkled the phrase “you know” over and over in my speech. For me, as a teenager, talking like a jock was a way of throwing off the role of foreigner, immigrant, someone who wasn’t born here and didn’t belong.

And yet, now that I no longer speak like a jock, I also know that resorting to the talk of a jock is a way to put white people I meet at ease. And at times, what I’m trying to make safe is not just my body, but also my intelligence and the way it is associated with my body and the stereotypes it invokes.

For in certain situations, I know the more articulate and learned I appear—that if I actually let loose at full throttle my intellect and learning—the more I run the risk of being perceived as a threat because of my Asian-looking face and body. I have to pick and choose when I let my intelligence and learning show and to what degree. Because in certain situations where a white writer or intellectual would be met with respect and admiration for their intellect and learning, my intellect and learning can, in an instance, become perceived as uppity, arrogant, showing off. And if that happens, the foreignness that is my face, my body, can then be turned into that of the outsider, the inscrutable threat, the one who wants to take something from white America. Just as, whenever America’s relationship to countries in Asia takes a turn for the worse, Asian Americans can feel the shadow of that worsening falling inevitably upon us.

If our situation as Asian Americans is, in various ways, different from that African Americans, we are both dealing with the stereotypes and prejudices that surround us and affect our interactions with American society. We want to belong, to have our place at the table. But we move, as Jelani Cobb and other Africans, between masks and scrims that are placed upon us, that keep others from seeing who we actually are. And we know we must, in order to succeed in this society, maneuver and navigate around and through these masks and scrims which, no matter how hard we work, how talented we are, never quite leave us.

This is not to say that we as Asian Americans cannot succeed. We do. We work hard. We try to get along. We try to bring our talents to the table. But we also know that our hard work and our talents in some instances will not be easily recognized. And we know in other instances our hard work and talents may be perceived as threats.

How we as Asian Americans deal with all this is individual and various. There are many strategies, many ways of owning who we are, of recognizing the racism that exists in the society around us.

So what exactly am I saying here? First, I’m saying that the experiences and culture of African Americans can be useful for us as Asian Americans in our understanding of who we are and our place in America. This runs against a certain tendency in the Asian American community to distance ourselves from the African American community. It runs against the ways many whites picture us as the “model minority” who are quiet, study hard, and don’t make waves, so that we become a tool with which to bludgeon and chastise those black people who, in the white gaze, are perceived as angry and dangerous and uneducated.

Second, I’m saying that we Asian Americans do face racism, do face stereotypes and prejudices, and that this has an effect on our psyches, on the ways we articulate our identities, and on the ways we make our way through American society. And I’m suggesting that it’s better to be consciously aware of both racism and its effects upon us than to go around in denial.

Third, I’m suggesting that the effects of race upon Asian Americans involves the subtle and sometimes almost imperceptible ways we adjust to the way we’re perceived by the white mainstream. Yes, there are large historical and political issues such as the internment camps or the Asian Exclusion laws or events like Vincent Chin or the Minneapolis police shooting of the unarmed Fong Lee or the Hmong hunter Chai Vang who got into a confrontation with white hunters in Wisconsin and shot and killed several people.   Such events and issues galvanize the perceptions of and reactions to our communities. Then too there are the even more systemic issues such as the achievement gaps or poverty that certain portions of our community suffer from. But there are also the ways we as individuals are constantly dealing with and battling with a portion of the American society and psyche that still says, “You don’t belong here. You’re not wanted. You are perpetually foreign. This country will never be your home.”

Finally, I’m not saying we cannot overcome these forces raised against us. But our ability to overcome these forces will be severely hampered if we don’t recognize them. As James Baldwin, the great African American writer, wrote: “Not everything that is faced can be changed; but nothing can be changed until it is faced.”

A New Definition of Racism

In Anna Deveare Smith’s multi-character play, Fires in the Mirror, which explores the racial tensions between Jews and blacks in Brooklyn’s Crown Heights, Smith impersonates a linguist she has interviewed. The linguist states that when it comes to the issues of race, we have “lousy language.” By this he means that our language does not sufficiently describe or convey the complexities of the ways race affects our individual lives and the society we live in. Our language concerning race is crude, undeveloped, inadequate.

One of the ways in which our language fails when it comes to race is in our definition of racism. Here is a definition from

  1. a belief or doctrine that inherent differences among the various human racial groups determine cultural or individual achievement, usually involving the idea that one’s own race is superior and has the right to dominate others or that a particular racial group is inferior to the others.
  1. a policy, system of government, etc., based upon or fostering such a doctrine; discrimination.
  1. hatred or intolerance of another race or other races.

From Merriam-Webster:

1: a belief that race is the primary determinant of human traits and capacities and that racial differences produce an inherent superiority of a particular race

2: racial prejudice or discrimination

Both first definitions start with the idea of belief in racial superiority of one race over another race. That is, there is an emphasis on conscious belief.

For a large number of contemporary Americans, the historical context for the definition of racism is the battle of the Civil Rights movement to dismantle the practices of the Jim Crow South: Alabama Governor George Wallace declaring “I say segregation now, segregation tomorrow, segregation forever;” Bull Connor unleashing dogs and police brutality upon the Freedom Riders; Ku Klux Klan rallies where crowds of white hooded figures surround a burning cross. It’s obvious that all of these figures believed in the superiority of the white race over the black race, consciously and actively discriminated against blacks, acted with prejudice and pursued policies of discrimination with fervency and often great hatred. In many ways our society’s image of a racist and racism is still frozen within that historical period of change in the Deep South.

When people argue that we are in a post-racial society or that society is relatively free now of racism, in their minds they are stating an obvious truth: Legal segregation of schools and other public institutions has been dismantled. Large scale Ku Klux Klan rallies no longer occur. The Voting Rights Act was passed (though of course recently dismantled by the Supreme Court). In short, the post-racial proponents are saying the Jim Crow South no longer exists, which is obviously true. At the same time, whether consciously or unconsciously, such people generally tend to limit their image of racism and racists to Mississippi or Alabama in 1930 or 1940 or 1955. That is, there’s a profound desire to keep the definitions attached to that era. Such people tend to feel far more uncomfortable with extending the definition of racists and racism back to the Founding Fathers who owned slaves. At the same time, by constricting their images of examples of racism to the Jim Crow South, these same people avoid contemplating whether racists or racism exists in America in 2015.

Beyond the particular historical period image attached to racists and racism, our definitions of these terms still rely on a foundation based on conscious belief. Racism is based upon a conscious belief by an individual in the inherent superiority of one race over another.

Such a definition, I would argue, is far too simplistic and limited. It does not explain the way racism works in America today.


Over the last twenty to twenty five years, writers and scholars in a number of fields have presented evidence of racial inequities in all areas of society—economics, employment, housing, the justice system, education, cultural representation, etc. Books like Michelle Alexander’s The New Jim Crow have provided evidence that racial disparities continue to exist and are, in some ways, equal to or even worse than in the Jim Crow South. Statistics and other evidence of these disparities are readily available in books, magazines, newspapers and on the web.

In my talks on race, when I provide PowerPoint examples of these disparities in various sectors, the accumulation of these racial inequities stuns certain members of the audience. The question arises: How can such inequities exist if racists and racism are things of the past?

Part of this seeming contradiction is, I answer, semantics. Our previous definition of racists and racism focused on a conscious belief in racial hierarchy or supremacy, on a conscious animus, on conscious avowals of racial prejudice or acts of racial discrimination or hate. But no one in 2015 America openly and publicly espouses such beliefs. The definition focuses on a type of racist and racism that no longer exists with the prevalence it did in the past.

Using the old definitions of racist and racism, those who argue that racism is a thing of the past use the following logic:

1) Racism occurs when someone discriminates or acts with prejudice and antagonism against someone of a different race based on the belief that one’s own race is superior.

2) Therefore, racial bias can only be proved if someone openly admits they are a racist and have acted in a racially biased way.

3) Since such admissions do not occur, racism does not exist.

What many people do not realize is that, as Michelle Alexander points out, in the Whren case, the Supreme Court used this same logic. Lawyers for Whren presented the Court with statistics showing racial disparities in the application of the death penalty by the state of Georgia. The Court ruled that such disparities did not sufficiently prove the existence of discrimination. Only an open admission of racial discrimination would be adequate to prove such discrimination was being practiced. In other words, only if the judges or prosecuting attorneys for the state of Georgia publicly stated or were recorded in private saying that they actively discriminated against black defendants in the application of the death penalty could those defendants prove that they had been racially discriminated against–a nearly impossible standard.*


To say that people today do not publicly declare their racial prejudice or publicly admit to acts of discrimination does not mean that no one in America holds racist beliefs or practices conscious discrimination. In most surveys, roughly one quarter of whites espouse beliefs that most would call racist; in various surveys, around one quarter say things like they would object to having a black family move next door or a black person marrying someone in their family. That means there are more than sixty million whites who hold such beliefs. That is hardly a small number. Many of this sixty million might express these beliefs—that is, conscious prejudice–in an anonymous survey but would not do so openly and in public. Then too, given the taboo against openly expressing racist beliefs, some whites might very well not admit to holding racists beliefs in a survey even though they actually do and might express such beliefs with those they believe are like-minded. The roughly one quarter or sixty million might very well be larger.

At the same time, social scientists and social psychologists have demonstrated that people can act with unconscious, or what is called implicit, racial bias. In one test, designed by Harvard psychologists, people were asked to associate positive adjectives with white faces and black faces. The majority of whites and also a significant portion of blacks were slower to attach positive adjectives with the black faces.* In another test, people were shown images of a white person and a black person; one of the people had a gun on their person. Whites were quicker at identifying when the black person had a gun; they also unequally attributed the black person as having a gun even when the black person held no gun on their person.* Similar studies have measured people’s reactions to resumes or e-mails with white sounding names as opposed to black and ethnic names. The same resume was more likely to win a higher approval or call back if the person’s name sounded white rather than black or ethnic.* Professors were more likely to answer the same e-mail requesting an appointment from a student with a white sounding name than a black or ethnic name (also males were responded to more frequently than females).*

Now given the liberal inclination of most colleges, no one would argue that all these college professors profess openly racist beliefs. And indeed, all these studies made this point: Their subjects could very well consciously profess to believe in racial equality and still act with an unconscious or implicit racial bias.

Picture a million encounters where an unconscious or implicit racial bias influences how an employer reads a resume or the police officer sees someone that officer deems suspicious even while that employer or police officer would never express a conscious racist belief or bias—that is a significant way racism works now in this country.


This brings us to the third way racism works in this country–systemically or structurally. The system of racism in this country involves both the accumulated actions of individuals and the practices and structures of the society. Thus, a clearer and more precise accounting of racism in this country would involve the following components:

  1. Conscious or explicit individual racial bias.
  1. Unconscious or implicit individual racial bias.
  1. Structural components

The structural components—which go beyond the acts of any one individual–can be broken down like this:

  1. Accumulated effect of acts of conscious/explicit and unconscious/implicit bias –e.g., Shootings of people of color by police versus shootings of whites. Blacks are four times more likely to be arrested for marijuana possession though whites use marijuana at the same rate blacks do. Limb amputations are 4.7 times as likely among black patients than white patients


  1. Allocation of resources – e.g., The imbalance between the resources going to white suburban schools and urban schools with a majority of students of color would be an example of this. The comparison between the amount of research dollars allocated to sickle cell anemia, a disease affecting mostly blacks as opposed to cystic fibrosis, a similar disease affecting whites.


  1. Policies/practices/rules which enable racism and racial inequities to be practiced or their effects increased—e.g., Stop and frisk policies. The lack of a special prosecutor to prosecute charges against the police. The way the Supreme Court ruled in the Wren case: Absent any explicit avowal of discrimination racial disparities in the application of the death penalty are not sufficient to prove bias. Voter I.D. laws.


  1. Beliefs/Concepts/Systems of thought which allow racial inequities to be created and maintained, which denigrate and demean people of color or promote white supremacy—e.g., The banning of ethnic studies in the Arizona school system. The dismantling of AP history in Oklahoma because the exam “overemphasizes” unsettling aspects of American history such as slavery, the genocide practiced upon Native Americans. Subjective standards in fields such as the arts or in hiring practices. Racial stereotypes. The belief that racism is over. The belief that one should and does not see race.

My breakdown here obviously simplifies a complex web of personal actions and societal practices which create and enable the racism and racial inequities that exist in our society. But I believe it provides a better and more complete picture of how racism works in 2015 America, as opposed to the old definitions which describe the racism of the Jim Crow South. Of course, the Jim Crow South could be analyzed also within this framework, but because the racism of the Jim Crow South was much more overt and publicly avowed, its workings were not hidden in the ways racism in 2015 American are sometimes—sometimes—hidden.

Another advantage of this breakdown: To dismantle racism today, we need different approaches depending upon the component of racism we are trying to attack. The strategy one might use to try to change a person who has a conscious or explicit racial bias would most likely be different than addressing the ways a person with unconscious or implicit racial bias needs to change. With the third component above, we are working more with laws and government policies, and so the battle here is on the political front. Further breakdown within categories may also be useful. It would probably be slightly easier to address the affects of implicit racial bias in the medical system than in the justice system. Certainly addressing the former involves fewer ideological or political battles such as one waged between recently between New York’s police union and Mayer de Blasio.

Similarly, by understanding and seeing the differences in these components, we can not only fine tune our strategies and approaches, we can also be more realistic in our expectations. In trying to transform the New York City police department, we should understand that changing the hearts and minds of individual police officers—some with conscious racial bias and some with unconscious racial bias—will be very difficult and will take some time. But ending the stop and frisk policy, as de Blasio recently demonstrated, was relatively easy to accomplish. More importantly, it gave the police considerably fewer opportunities to act with either conscious or unconscious racial bias. In Ferguson, the fines levied by the police and the justice system made up a considerable portion of the city budget and there was a constant call to increase that revenue. Devising other ways of gathering municipal revenue and reducing the expectations of revenue from the police and the justice system would most likely reduce racially biased interactions on the part of the police, even if the hearts and minds of the police remain unchanged.

Seeing these four components together makes it easier to connect them and to speak of the ways they work together. Obviously, there are certain beliefs which foster and enable and reinforce both explicit and implicit bias. At the same time, the work to dismantle these beliefs and belief systems is, on one level, impersonal; we are in the realm of arguing about ideas. And yet, since individuals hold these beliefs and some of these individuals tend to equate these beliefs with who they are and their place in the world, we must understand that we are working both on the level of intellectual debate and on the level of getting past people’s psychological defense mechanisms. This doesn’t mean that editorials or academic arguments aren’t useful. But when we are dealing with specific individuals or in group discussions, we may need to approach this problem in a way that works in both realms—the realm of ideas and the realm of personal psychology.


Overall, I think it’s far more useful to define racism in a way which has less emphasis on conscious personal belief and on individual thought or action. Our definition and our approach should always start with a systemic context. Thus, here would be a new definition of racism:

  1. Racism is a system through which the power and resources of a society are distributed unequally and undemocratically by race. This system functions in all areas of society—politics, economics, the judicial system, the education system, culture, social relations, religion, etc.
  1. Actions and beliefs which support the status quo workings of this system are racist.
  1. Racism can be supported both by individuals with conscious or explicit racial bias or by individuals with unconscious or implicit racial bias. Conscious and openly expressed views of racial supremacy need not be present for a person to act in a racially biased manner and thus, contribute to racial inequities.

Unlike the old standard definitions of racism, which are based on and associated more with the Jim Crow South, this revised definition more adequately expresses the ways racism works in contemporary America.

A corollary to this revised definition is a revised set of criteria for assessing the presence of racism. Given the fact that few Americans now openly or publicly express beliefs in racial supremacy, the absence of such statements should no longer be sufficient proof that racism is not present in an institution or a specific activity or area of society. Instead, far greater weight should be given to statistics that indicate discernable racial inequities or disparities. We should start with the statistical evidence of inequality and then begin to trace and discern the various ways such inequality is achieved—through individuals with explicit or implicit bias, through allocations of resources, through rules and practices, through specific beliefs or ideas. Declarations of good intentions, whether in the past or projecting toward the future, are not enough, and indeed may simply be a way of camouflaging or covering over the problem. To address and correct racial inequities, concrete actions towards addressing all the four components of racism must be proposed and enacted.


William Gibson, the novelist who is credited with founding cyberpunk, has said, “The future is already here–it’s just not very evenly distributed.” In 2015 America, in the battle towards racial equity, our understanding of the problems we face and how to analyze and address them are, in many ways, much more sophisticated than they were a quarter century ago. Whether in social psychology, political science, economics, law, history, or culture, our abilities and tools are more precise, more complex. Then too, in part because of computer advances, the statistics concerning racial inequities cover a broad range of areas and are more readily available. Knowledge about how we talk about and understand racism is more readily available. Word just gets out faster. Terms like microagression and implicit bias are becoming common usage. And, among other factors, the changing demographics of the country make it clear that the issues of race are not going away; they are instead pressing upon us with a renewed urgency as our nation becomes more increasingly diverse and as we approach the time—around 2040—when we will no longer have a white majority.

I have no doubt we’ll need a new and more complex model of addressing and understanding racism than the one I’ve provided in this essay. But I hope my breakdown is a start. At the very least, it demonstrates that our old definitions of racism are too simple and are inadequate. We need to think beyond the level of individuals—whether in terms of what they believe or how they act. We need to be better at seeing how race works beneath a societal surface where no one will admit to holding racist beliefs or acting with racial bias. We need to think systemically. Only if we adequately describe the problem will we ever have a chance of solving it.

* What may not be clear here is that if the Court required that each defendant openly acknowledge their crime—that is, admit that they consciously intended to commit the crime–almost no defendants would ever be convicted.


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Thoughts on the Anniversary of Executive Order 9066 and the Internment of Japanese Americans

On this anniversary of Roosevelt signing Executive Order 9066 which ordered the internment of 120,000 Japanese Americans:  Thinking of Giuliani’s remarks on how Obama “does not love America” because “He wasn’t brought up the way you and I were brought up through love of this country”, thinking of the anti-Muslim and anti-Arab prejudice that has arisen in this country, thinking of the anti-immigrant prejudice, I think of this editorial from the Los Angeles Times in 1942:

“A viper is nonetheless a viper wherever the egg is hatched. A leopard’s spots are the same and its disposition is the same wherever it is whelped. So a Japanese-American, born of Japanese parents, nurtured upon Japanese traditions, living in a transplanted Japanese atmosphere and thoroughly inoculated with Japanese thoughts, Japanese ideas and Japanese ideals, notwithstanding his nominal brand of accidental citizenship, almost inevitably and with the rarest of exceptions grows up to be a Japanese, into a Japanese in his thoughts, in his ideas, and in his ideals, and himself is a potential and menacing, if not an actual, danger to our country unless properly supervised, controlled and, as it were ‘hamstrung.'”
–Editorial, Los Angeles Times, 1942

So many thoughts: Did the LA Times write the same thing about Italian Americans, against Giuliani’s parents? If Giuliani and the LA Times were right in their illogic, how is it the 442nd, the regiment of Japanese Americans, was one of the most decorated units in Europe in World War II?  U.S. generals actually fought with each other to have the 442nd under their command.  (Which is not to slight the No-No Boys who protested the internment and the taking away of their Constitutional rights by resisting the draft, and who showed their patriotism by upholding the Constitution in ways neither the Congress nor the President did.) The racism thrown at Obama is just a slightly more disguised version of what was thrown at the Japanese American community over sixty years ago.

Thinking of all the protests against the building of mosques in Manhattan and Tennessee and elsewhere, thinking of all the hysteria against immigrant workers, I recall these posters from 1922:


You came to care for lawns,
we stood for it.
You came to work in truck gardens,
we stood for it.
You sent your children to our public schools,
we stood for it.
You moved a few families in our midst,
we stood for it.
You proposed to build a church in our neighborhood
You impose more on us each day
Until you have gone your limit.

History repeats itself. How much have we learned? How much do we need to learn?

An Asian American on “White Math”

I’ve coined a new term—“white math.” It comes out of a response to my critique of Miss Saigon on Opine Season (and here below on my blog) by one Bob Dunning, who writes:

“It’s funny to me that the same people who had a hard time with Jon Pryce in Saigon have no problem with Lea Salonga as a French hooker in Les Mis.”

My reply:

There’s a typical white person, Bob Dunning, who believes that if white people take thousands of things that ought to belong to people of color–as in the entire history of yellow-face representations of Asians in American cinema and stage–then a person of color taking one thing evens it all up.

I call this “white math.”

There are myriad examples of white math:

The setting free of one possibly guilty black man, O.J. Simpson, is a greater outrage than all the race based arrests and false convictions of blacks and Latinos and all the systemic racial imbalances in the justice system.

The average white child gets $700 more paid for their education than the average black or Latino child. The white math equation: White student + $700 = Black/Latino student + 0.

Passing a voter ID law because there were possibly four false votes in Wisconsin is reasonable, even if it ends up disenfranchising a much greater percentage of people of color than white people. Because those four false votes are more important and count more than the thousands of people of color who will not be able to vote because of the law.

Halliburton and its shareholders make billions off a war started on false premises by a former Halliburton executive. That possibly can’t be corruption or welfare or a waste of the taxpayer’s dollars. But Reagan’s single black mother with two kids receiving food stamps of sixty bucks a week? That’s an outrage; that’s government waste. Here, under white math, sixty bucks is “greater than” (remember that old math sign?) several billion.

Whites steal a continent from your people and commit genocide on you, but you Native Americans really need to put that in the past. It’s nothing now. Zero. On the other hand, if you Native Americans want us to change the name of our sports team, that’s infringing upon our rights to free speech. That’s the real crime. A very positive number. After all, some Native Americans don’t mind the name of the Washington team. So in white math, that lesser number overrides the majority of Native Americans who do mind.[1]

According to the Supreme Court, a university can take into account an almost always white applicant being the scion of alumni or of a major donor, that is, someone who’s already had advantages that others don’t have. To admit that person because of those advantages isn’t actually giving the applicant an unfair advantage. But if we take into account how the race of a black or Latino or Native American student may actually have led to their having less advantages and opportunities, that’s clearly giving the POC student an unfair advantage.

Hard to even express the math logic in that one. I think it goes: White Positive Advantage=Zero (or perhaps a negative number). POC lack of advantage=Does not compute (imaginary number?).

A white person and a black person with similar jobs, identical salaries and assets enter a bank and ask for a loan. Statistically the white person will be more likely to receive the loan and at a lower interest than a black person. But white math tells us that these similar jobs, identical salaries and assets only appear so on paper. The equation here is simple: The white dollar is worth more than the black dollar.

White people and black people use marijuana at the same rate. And yet, if a white person uses marijuana he is less likely than a black person to be arrested for the same crime; if arrested, the white person will be less likely to go to trial then the black person; at trial, the white person will be less likely to be convicted; if convicted the average sentence of a white person will be less than the average sentence for blacks. But racism no longer exists; there can’t be any racial bias in our justice system.

So in white math, take one hundred white users and one hundred black users of marijuana. If five of these white users are arrested and ten of the black users are arrested, under white math those percentages must be equal.

I the white person have not experienced and don’t see any evidence of racism in our society. (Of course, the whole point of white racism is that it’s directed at people of color and not white people.) So that settles it. There is no racism in this country. My view overrides and negates a million accounts by people of color who attest that racism still exists in this country. One counts more than a million.[2]

This sort of white math is easy. Just saw Donald Sterling use it the other night when he told Anderson Cooper he Sterling doesn’t see racism as a problem in this country. But then Sterling’s been practicing white math for a long time. Even his tenants of color and the Justice Department know that.

White math–I could go on all day.

So yes, Bob Dunning and all you other white math experts, it is funny. Ha ha. Real funny. Just not in the way you think.


[1] I might be wrong on this; I haven’t done an actual poll. Daniel Snyder, why don’t we just poll all Native Americans and let them decide? You up for that? Didn’t think so. It would be too difficult to get white math into a poll of Native Americans. Unless you treat the Native Americans who agree with you Daniel Snyder under the rules of white math—as honorary white people. Then their votes could count two or three or a million times more than other Native Americans.

[2] For some of you, it may be hard to see the logical fallacy here: If you’ve never seen Beijing, that doesn’t mean Beijing doesn’t exist. Millions of other people can attest to its existence. True, most of them are Chinese. And, granted, under white math…..


On the Response to Junot Diaz’s “MFA vs. POC”

On The New Yorker web page, fiction writer Junot Diaz recently published a critique of the “whiteness” of MFA programs:   This is a shortened version of his intro to the VONA anthology, Dismantle: An Anthology of Writings from the VONA/Voices Writing Workshop.

Some of the responses to Diaz’s intro in the comment section are reprehensible, and I’ve written this post in response to those comments:


“The number of ad hominem attacks here certainly give weight to Diaz’s arguments. When the person of color brings up a critique, the response is often to critique the so-called character or personality faults of the person of color–or to critique the language in which the critique is expressed (too angry, uses too many swear words, the person doesn’t have the right to make this critique because he or she is in some other way privileged, etc.). These critiques are all ways the dominant culture uses to dismiss concrete and systemic issues.

One key issue: Are the faculty in MFA programs well versed in a variety of literary traditions and thought? When I was in an English Ph.D. program I read a handful of poems by Amiri Baraka and that was it. In my MFA program I was not taught anything about the tradition of African American letters (much less about Asian American, Native American or Latino American, much less the traditions of global writing or post-colonial theory). Many of my students at VONA and other writers of color I’ve encountered also express a similar absence in their MFA training and thus, in the faculty that teach in these programs.

A second issue about the “whiteness” of MFA workshops is addressed not to individual white people, but to the literary practices and ways of thinking which are deemed standard in a white dominated society and literary world. For example, the default literary practice in American writing is that white writers do not have to identify their white characters as being white. Is this practice politically and racially neutral or is it a practice which can be examined in light of a literary and political critique? In most current MFA workshops, what would happen if such a critique were expressed? Would it be acknowledged that there are actually at least two sides–if not many more–that are addressing this practice? Or would such a critique be dismissed as too political, as “PC” and therefore not literary? And what would the response be to the student who offered up such a critique?

One exercise of power is to keep critiques of the dominant power from ever being voiced. Ad hominem attacks are one way, ignoring the existence of the critiques are another (i.e., not knowing the literary traditions and thought of people of color), and standard practices of how workshops are run are another. The motive is to keep actual debate of the issues outside the classroom or from occurring in the literary world.”


I know, as so many suggest, I shouldn’t be looking at comment sections. I can certainly understand the argument that it’s useless to respond to “trolls.”

Still one comment about Junot’s piece on the New Yorker blog seemed to me to voice a valid concern. Here’s the comment:


“This is my perspective as a white guy in the academic world….My concern is, if I try to talk about race, people’s reaction is likely to be: nice try guy, but you can’t understand the experiences of people of color. On the other hand, based on Junot Diaz’s remarks, it seems like if I choose to keep silent about matters of race the reaction is: you’re afraid to confront these issues, so you’re part of the problem. I have no doubt that it’s hard for people of color, especially when it seems like their concerns are widely ignored. But it’s hard for me too — I honestly don’t think anyone, person of color or otherwise, wants to hear my perspective on race. I’ve never felt encouraged to join that conversation.”


Here’s what I wrote back:


“I can understand how you, as “a white guy in the academic world,” might feel you’re damned if you do and damned if you don’t. Many whites don’t think race is a pressing issue so they don’t feel the dilemma in the way you seem to. But your dilemma isn’t the same as POC in the academic world who, when they do voice their critiques about institutional practices concerning race, are met with disbelief or ad hominem attacks or derision (as shown in this commentary section).

I recall talking recently with a young white male writer who said while he knew race was an important subject, he was afraid to write about it because he was afraid of being called a “racist.” So I’m sure there are other whites–writers and academics–who feel like you, that perhaps they’re better off not engaging, remaining silent.

Conversations are, of course, two way streets. But when individuals of different races converse, that conversation doesn’t take place in a neutral, ahistorical realm. Richard Wright has indicated that white and black American are engaged in a struggle over the description of reality. But one key difference is that that white description has prevailed and dominated our society and culture.

As a Japanese American, I grew up thinking I wanted to be a white person and thought it a compliment when white people told me they thought of me as a white person. I went through twenty-six years of education without really being presented anything like the black description of our social reality and history (much less a Japanese American description). I only got that education after I left English grad school. On my own.

So the thing is, when you as a white person enter a conversation about race, most likely there are many things you don’t know–about the cultures and histories of people of color, about the arguments and theories we have of our mutual history and how this society functions, about the lives of people of color. But people of color, if we have gone through your school systems, know we have to know how whites tell their histories to themselves, how they regard themselves and their racial identity (which is often–“whites don’t have a racial identity”). We have heard the white side and view of things; we can’t avoid it. We have read books about white people by white people, seen movies and television shows about white people by white people. We have listened a lot to white people. It is really hard, if not impossible, for us to be successful in this society without listening to white people–and often, listening while holding or biting our tongues.

If you are really interested in having a true conversation about race with people of color, then you should realize that historically this has been a mainly one-sided conversation. Since whites have been dominating the conversation so long, perhaps the role for you as an individual white person is, at first, simply to listen, to find out what you don’t know. As Donald Rumsfeld has infamously observed, there are things we don’t know we don’t know. That is often the case when whites enter conversations with people of color about race. Whites don’t actually know how much they do not know about the lives of people of color. The only antidote to this is to be curious and listen. Listening too is part of the art of conversation.

Unfortunately, as so many of the negative responses here to Diaz’s article indicate, there’s a sizable number of whites who simply cannot hear people of color describe their experiences. That simple description of one’s life as a person of color so challenges white assumptions about our social reality that the white person cannot even entertain that the person of color may actually be telling the truth about his or her experience–as in sjdmccarthy’s comments below.

In Baldwin’s The Devil Finds Work, there’s a great quotation about identity. In it, Baldwin pictures a stranger walking into a village. Encountering that stranger, says Baldwin, should cause one to question one’s identity because the stranger looks at the world and herself and you differently than you, and your identity must now shift to include not just the strange, but the perspective of the stranger in your consciousness of yourself. But for that to happen, you have to listen to the stranger, you have to learn from the stranger. And that requires you, said Baldwin, to change your robes, to reconstruct your identity. Listening then is dangerous, threatening. But as Baldwin implies, necessary and life affirming.”


At the Stonecoast MFA program, I and Alexs Pate teach a workshop, “Writing About Race.” In it, writers examine literary and other issues that arise from writing about race. The workshop is an attempt to create a safe space for white writers and writers of color to discuss race.

I also teach at the VONA Voices Writers’ Workshop, a writers’ conference for writers of color taught by writers of color. VONA is there for writers of color to examine and discuss their work and the issues that arise from that work. It provides a space where writers of color don’t have to spend a majority of the workshop explaining their work or their lives to white writers or arguing with white writers about our right to tell our truths and lives in our own voices.

We need more of both of these spaces.

“Make It New”: Creativity and the Workshop Model

The following is a familiar scenario to most writing teachers: Each time a student brings work to the class, the poems are all similar and share the same faults. When the student is confronted with these faults, whether, say, an overuse of generalizations or sentimental language or obscurity, the student clearly balks at the criticism. He may respond, “This is my style of writing” or “This is the type of poem I want to write” or “X read this and said it was wonderful” or “If I revise this I’ll lose the original impulse for the poem, my true feelings” (or any other number of defensive remarks). An argument may ensue where the teacher tries to bring to bear his or her superior knowledge of the craft and tradition and articulate more clearly the failures of the poem.

All the while, in this dialogue, the student either grows more defiant or sinks in a morass of emotions–self-pity, embarrassment, anger and resentment, self-loathing, feelings of failure. Whatever happens, it’s clear the student does not want to revise the poem to any great extent. And the question of whether or not the student knows how to do this is moot. The desire is not there, so what good is any exposition on technique going to do?

What is the primary source of this impasse?   Is it merely a lack of knowledge or learning or experience, all of which the teacher possesses to a greater extent than the student?

I would say No, the primary source of this impasse is psychological. And this impasse, I believe, stems from a faulty understanding of creativity and the writing process. One way to understand this impasse is to imagine what is going on in the head of the student: If this piece of writing is not working, then that means I may be—or am surely—a failure as a writer. I have no potential. I will not succeed.

A different approach: This poem may not work. It’s an experiment. I am one step closer to the answer. I am just starting to discover my potential as a writer. This discovering is a process, whose end neither I, nor my teacher, can predict. What I do have control of is this: I can learn to write differently and in new ways. I can experiment more. I can learn new techniques. I can continue on with the process.


The structure of the workshop model tends to encourage an approach to writing that stresses performance and product. The student often feels as if the presentation of her work to the class is a performance. She is producing a product that will be judged by her peers, and she wants that judgment always to be positive. This dynamic is increased in a writing class or MFA program where students feel especially competitive with each other.

Given this dynamic, the student will feel pressured to present only that work which she is comfortable with and which she feels will be regarded as successful. She will be less inclined to experiment, to try something new, to present work she is unsure of. She will be more afraid of failing or appearing foolish. She will stay with the tried and true.

Such a dynamic is not an atmosphere that fosters creative growth. The best businesses—especially tech businesses—understand this. But I wonder how many writing workshops are conducted with such an understanding.


While writing workshops can teach students important critical skills, what the workshops often fail to deal with is the nature of the creative process. In my teaching, I start with certain basic premises about creativity:

1) The unconscious is always more creative and complex than the conscious mind.

2) Techniques serve to occupy the conscious mind so that the unconscious mind can be left free to create and bubble up to the surface.   Thus, though techniques call attention to formal elements, their ultimate purpose is to provide access to the unconscious mind. They do this in part by enabling creative “accidents”.

In this way we should not look at techniques as intimidating benchmarks or standards, but as tools to help us in the creative process.

3) Writing is like a chess game between the conscious and the unconscious mind. The conscious mind makes the first move, and the unconscious mind responds. Beginning writers are often more attached to the first move of the conscious mind. They often don’t see–or refuse to acknowledge–where the unconscious mind is leading. They want to cheat, to have the conscious mind control the whole process. The reasons for this are often psychological. In part, the beginning writer is afraid of what the unconscious mind is revealing.

4) Creative writing is the search for and creation of a language to express what the unconscious knows but does not have the language to express.


The student who does the same poem or story over and over believes he has only one voice. That, the student says, is my true voice. That is me. In this way, the student underestimates his own complexity.

Beyond this, partly as a result of the critiques they receive in the workshop model, beginning writers will focus on micro issues in their revising—changing a word or a sentence structure, line by line attention. They often avoid trying to radically rethink or re-conceive their work, to find a totally different approach or voice, to take the whole thing apart and try again.

But in our writing, breakthroughs often come less from small revisions or critical evaluations than from the discovery of a new voice; this voice is one that was previously repressed, often for various psychological reasons. At times this discovery may come through switching to a new form and even a new genre.

I’m a firm believer in Jungian psychology as useful model for the creative writer, the view that our psyches through the lens of polytheism rather than monotheism. Viewing the psyche as a multiplicity is far more useful than viewing it as a unity or even a Freudian division of superego, ego and id. Such a Jungian approach recognizes that we all contain a multiplicity of voices inside our heads, a pantheon of inner gods. Whatever religion we may profess, our creative impulses are polytheistic and poly-vocal (and thus, also multicultural).   Rather doing the same thing over and over, creativity comes, in part, from unleashing these different voices, from diverse approaches.

As I’ve said before here, many gods, many voices.

Viva for the Losers! or What My “Tiger Dad” Couldn’t Teach Me

“A man’s errors are his portals of discovery.”–James Joyce

“Do it right the first time is insane advice. Nobody does anything…INTERESTING…right the first…or the twenty-first….or the forty-first…time. Doing the new means screwing around, trying stuff, and messing stuff up….again and again and again. That is…WASTE.” –Tom Peters

Growing up I fit soundly into the stereotype of the model Asian American student.

Not that I had thick glasses and a pencil holder in my white shirt and looked like one of the bit players from “Revenge of the Nerds.” The Asian math-science geek nerd was an image I very consciously tried to avoid.* Indeed, in my high school years, I adopted a look I thought at the time to be incredibly hip, and which could put Austin Powers to shame: striped bell bottom pants, a bright pastel shirt, a paisley scarf worn like an ascot, and my father’s old army jacket.

Still, despite my appearances, deep down, I was the classic grade grind, a nerd at heart. It took me a long time to realize the restrictions of this model, a long time to understand that there were things I needed to learn that a successful report card could not teach me. This included a crucial lesson in my becoming a writer–the value of failure.

That there was any value in failure was something I would have scoffed at when younger. For me, from grade school on, failure was unimaginable, unthinkable. Like a good Sansei (third generation Japanese American) son, I’d imbibed my Nisei (second generation) father’s admonitions on work and school and grades to the point where I felt a constant pressure to get straight A’s. At the kitchen table, my father would go over my report cards, remarking on the one A- or B+ that marred my record.

This type of thinking and training worked for me—that is, until I hit English grad school where I ran up seven course incompletes and was told to take a year’s leave of absence (as mentioned in my previous blog).

So there I was, the embodiment of the stereotypical Asian American student, a grind, a young man who went into tests thinking I should get an A because I had studied twice as much as any other student. And now I was being drummed out of grad school. A washout. I was humiliated, depressed, wondering what would become of my life now that, at twenty seven, I was deemed a failure.


Shortly after I flunked out of English grad school, I began to teach in the Writers in the Schools program. Gradually, like Kenneth Koch and others in such programs, I came to see that teaching poetry writing to young children involves quite a different approach from those I experienced as a student in an English Lit Ph.D. program. Rather than presenting writing as foreboding and forbidding, with an emphasis on standards and the literary canon, I needed to help young students feel comfortable with the process of writing. Through my teaching and reading books on creativity in science and business, I learned some general conclusions about the writing process:

1.  Attention to the “rules” hinders the creative process.

Though I first came upon this notion when teaching poetry to young people, I soon realized this attention to the rules meant more than the rules of grammar or spelling.   This doesn’t mean that you don’t learn these rules or other rules or techniques. As an adult I didn’t worry about the rules of grammar or spelling because I had learned them. (Well, actually that’s a lie. I don’t worry now about spelling because I have a computer and spell check does the work for me.)   What this does mean is that worrying about rules you are just learning and, at the same time, creating a new work is too difficult a task. Separate the tasks. Don’t make your brain do two things at once. When you’re creating, your unconscious needs to follow its own course rather than worry about rules.

2.  In writing, the creative mindset is one that is relaxed and loose. It involves a willingness to travel anywhere, to entertain whatever comes up. It can be helped along through work beforehand gathering images, ideas, material, etc. so that you don’t feel you’re starting to write with only a blank page before you. Instead you have the sense that there’s a vast array of materials you can draw from.   You have to adopt an attitude of openness to whatever language comes forth.

3.  Creativity comes through a willingness to experiment, to make mistakes. It involves what others might call waste or failure. But Thomas Edison remarked that no experiment is a failure; it taught him what didn’t work, and that brought him one step closer to an answer.

4.  What hampers creativity? A pressure to be perfect, to get it right every time. A pressure to produce a product, to perform to a grade. A pressure to never do anything foolish or outré, anything risky. In other words, the exact mindset I’d learned as an A student—to get everything perfect—was a recipe for writer’s block.

Or, as William Stafford put it, the key to writer’s block is “lower your standards.”


Where does language come from? Our unconscious.

Thus, when the conscious mind decides to write, it is the unconscious mind that sends up a sentence.

But then the conscious mind, the critical mind, the A student mind, the get-it-perfect mind, says, “Well, that’s not good enough.” Depending upon who you are, your conscious mind might add, “That’s so far away from Garcia Marquez…” or any other writing hero you might use as a critical standard setter. And then, another part of your brain might add your parents or family members saying, “This isn’t serious real work, this is a waste of time.”

A bit daunted, your unconscious tries sending up another sentence.

“Not good enough,” says the conscious mind. The other voices clamor in with their jeers.

A third sentence. Criticism, rejection.

By about the fourth or fifth sentence, your unconscious mind shouts back, “Screw you, I’m not going to work for you anymore.”

Hence, writer’s block.


Imagine yourself getting up before two groups and speaking.

In the first group is a committee of tenured English professors and administrators who think everything great was written in the distant past and who want to prove creative writing is a waste of time.

In the second group are the people with whom you feel most comfortable speaking, your partner or spouse, your best friends.

With which group will you be more articulate? With which group will speak to more easily, more naturally, more eloquently? With which group will you be more likely to let your personality break through?

The second group, of course.

So why do writers think if they imagine themselves writing to the first group, that will make them better writers?

Banish that first group—the censors—from your writing room. Do not listen to them. Stop wringing your own throat. Lower your standards.

When you sit down to write, there’s nothing you can do that will make you smarter, more talented, more interesting, sexier, more learned, more prepared. You are who you are at that moment. You can be no one else.

Accept who you are, accept your words.

You have to be the reader who welcomes your language. You have to listen to whatever language your unconscious mind comes up with, whatever sentences that happens to drift into your consciousness.

If you allow the unconscious to speak, it will keep speaking; it will lead you to places your conscious mind could not imagine. For the unconscious mind is smarter and far more creative than the conscious or critical mind.

Writing is a process. Enter into the process, let it unfold.


* It took me years to realize how this reaction was related to negative racial stereotypes and my own internalized racism (c.f. Where the Body Meets Memory).


Portrait of the Young Artist as Failure–or, What Is Wrong with the Workshop Model

I was twenty-seven, in my fifth year of study in an English Ph.D. program, when the director of the program called me into his office.

At the time I had taken a few creative writing classes and written a handful of poems, three or four of which had been published in minor literary magazines. Recently I had been one of two student readers fronting for a featured local poet at an on-campus reading series. The featured poet was my age and had published over four hundred poems. I had no idea how he had managed to do this—either his prolific output of poems or his massive publications. Most of my poems were short surrealist lyrics, much in vogue at the time. Except for a poem about my grandfather’s tiepin, a gift handed down to me by my father, I had not written anything concerning my identity as a Japanese American or the history of my community and my family. At the time I feared such subjects might mark me as a minority writer, would relegate me to a second-class literary status.


But it wasn’t my meager poetic output for which the head of the English grad program was calling me into his office. It was my scholarly output, which was even more meager. I had by that time racked up incompletes in seven courses. Though I had first drafts of the papers for these courses, I seemed unable to finish them.

I can still remember the face of the director, a balding middle-aged Bellow scholar with black thick lensed glasses. He was wearing a plaid shirt; his corduroy sports coat with leather patched sleeves was draped over the back of his chair. Around us rose shelves of books. Examples of what I myself would never write.

“I’m afraid we’re going to have to suspend your teaching assistantship,” he said. “Take the next year off and see if you can finish some of your incompletes.”

I left the office devastated and in despair. How would I support myself without my assistantship? Where would I find time to finish the incompletes? I couldn’t even finish them when I had financial support.

When I entered graduate school I had thought that I would one day become a poet-scholar, teaching at a college campus, like a couple of my professors in undergraduate school. Clearly though I was not going to become either a poet or a scholar. My career had ended even before it began.


I’m in the process of writing a book on creative writing.   The principles invoked in the pages of this book come out of my own journey as a writer. I am a poet, a fiction writer, a creative nonfiction writer and memoirist, a playwright and performance artist; the writings here—spanning thirty years–reflect what I’ve learned as a practitioner and teacher of these different genres.

Though I write now in various forms, my start as a writer, as seen in my opening here, was hardly propitious. Like many beginning writers, I suffered early on from a massive writer’s block. It was in solving that block that I came to understand certain crucial aspects of the writing process.

Much of what I learned derived from asking a simple question: What does it mean to be creative?   This seems, in retrospect, an obvious and fundamental question. Yet it was a question absent from my early literary training.

All across the country, over the past few decades, hundreds of writing workshops have sprung up–at universities and colleges, in high schools, at community centers, at arts organization.   In them, the students learn many things, but often the main thing that is stressed is the development of a critical mind, the ability to criticize your own work and the work of others. The student is taught how to tell a good poem from a bad poem, to articulate why a story doesn’t work, to recognize when a character is underdeveloped or the plot of your novel doesn’t click.

As a result of this focus on the critical function, most workshops are designed along the following model: A student hands out a small sample of their writing to the members of the workshop; a week or so later, they proceed to tell the student what is good and bad about her piece. The question of what the student is to do next with her writing—the process of new creation and revision—is then left up to the student.

Given this model, what many workshops teach are critical, not creative, skills.


Occasionally, besides the critiques of student work, the teacher will bring in examples of work she finds to be excellent, and students are taught standards—that is, the tradition, who the great writers are–and through this study, presumably, they will learn how to write like these writers. The student learns to be serious with her own work, to measure it against the great works of the past; she understands that the tradition and the standards she has learned place demands on her, and those demands are to be honored.

But when the student sits down at her paper or at her computer screen, when she faces the blank page, all those great writers, all that tradition, all the critical skills she has learned, become a weight upon her shoulders, a tourniquet upon her psyche, a gag for her mouth. Nothing she has to say, nothing she will write, will live up to those standards. And often, not surprisingly, she finds that the most difficult part of her task is simply sitting down to write and continuing to write on a regular basis.

For such a writer, the workshop model has created or increased her writer’s block, not solved it.